


Behind the bloodstained curtain

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, a lot of gore, angbang, or sort of angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning for gore, suffocation, death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the bloodstained curtain

The toxic silence which was filling the large room tasted delightfully, and Melkor hummed softly as he leaned back in his throne, blackened hands resting clamly on the armrests and icy blue eyes observing the morbid cortege in front of him.

One by one, the orcs were taking the prisoners - those who were still alive- back to their cells, while the slaves picked up the corpses, putting them on the greasy, bloodstained wheelbarrows. The dead flesh would be brought to the kitchens; the lesser parts would be boiled and salted and cooked and then given to the captains among the orcs, while the most tender meat would just be cut and given to the wolves. The master of Angband would feed Carcharoth himself, the blood would drip from his burnt fingers while the wolf, fangs bared, would lick and rip the flesh that was still making him stronger, bigger, more threatening and more powerful as the years passed over Thangorodrim.

But until then, Carcharoth was sitting at his master’s feet, nostrils twitching as the acrid smell reached them, and anticipation was deadly obvious in his tensed muscles as he watched the slaves taking his dinner away. Yet, Melkor’s will was keeping the beast close, the Vala’s power tightening around Carcharoth’s body and mind, forbidding him to leave his place.

Licking his lips eagerly, the young wolf looked at the Maia who was standing in the middle of the room, red eyes watching the slaves, and pale lips curling up each time the snap of whip could be heard.

Their master was getting impatient, the wolf could feel it and surely the Maia had noticed it too. Melkor didn’t need to speak in such circumstances, for his all being emitted irritation and impatience by itself, this strong Fana which was keeping his spirit locked, and said spirit that seemed to slowly consume the material flesh, as the Silmaril had done a few decades earlier.

But Carcharoth didn’t know any of this, and as he felt his master’s irritation he slowly backed behind the throne, his tail curling between his legs and his ears falling in the most submissive position.

The lieutenant felt it too, and as he avoided to look in the direction of his master, he barked a few cursed orders to the orcs who were responsible for the slaves. They weren’t fast enough, precise enough, the corpses kept on falling from the wheelbarrows, covernig the marble floor with blood and viscera.

The whip struck again. One, two, three times, each strikes followed by a cry, but the Maia wasn’t smiling anymore.

Finally, all the dead bodies were carried away, and painfully the slaves were leaving the throne room. Yet, before they all left, the lieutenant grabbed one of them by the hair, and ignoring his whimpers, he kicked his legs to make him kneel in front of him. With no word, he dragged him towards his master, and Melkor, still silent, observed, a slight frown on his forehead.

The two Ainur stared at each other lengthilly, the melody of the slave’s cries echoing around them, a melody they both knew and enjoyed too well.

“Why is he here for?” The Vala asked slowly, a dark voice rolling like thunder against the wall. “The punishment had been given already. Why would you waste another the precious life, Mairon?” A cruel irony gushing from his smile, Melkor kept his eyes on his lieutenant’s face.

“These punishments were but a display, my lord.” the Maiar replied coldly, standing still and proud, his fingers tightening around the blond, dirty strands in his hand, though the slave wasn’t struggling; he had painfully learned how to stay still when the Maia was around.

“A display?” Melkor pondered the word, eyebrows raising. His lieutenant had this particular characterstic he had found in nobody else - except his own brother: he could surprise him, and this talent Melkor didn’t wish to waste. “All this blood shed only for my own amusement… How childish, Mairon.”

Impassive, the Maia didn’t react to the comment, or at least he didn’t seem to react, but Melkor knew he was now fighting against the urge to protest. Enjoying the inside battle he could admire in the Maia’s eyes, the master of Angband chuckled and tilted his head as he noticed how pitifully the elf reacted to the sounds of his voice.

“My lord.” The Maia began, keeping his own voice calm and stern, but Melkor could taste the flames that were dancing in his lieutenant, the threatening frustration he so vainly tried to hide. “I am afraid your amusement was not the main purpose of this display.”

Melkor’s brows raised higher as his surprise increased. The statement was daring, and if any other servant had spoken these words, they would have bitterly regretted it. But there was something in Mairon’s boldness that amused the Vala as much as it pleased him. It had taken so long before the Maia could allow himself to challenge his master, so many years before Mairon could disagree, share his ideas and speak them aloud. And still yet, he rarely allowed himself to show so much insolence.

Melkor could not blame him. He could enjoy his lieutenant’s ideas, his initiatives and insolent mind, but not in every occasions. And he suspected the Maia to adapt his demeanor and his speech to his master’s mood.

Ingenious and clever, as always with Mairon.

“What was its purpose, then?” Melkor asked, his gaze falling upon the whimpering slave. The cries hadn’t stopped and although he could enjoy this music for hours, it was now getting on his nerves. Noticing the sudden change in his master’s look, the lieutenant pinched the elf’s nose, his palm pressing against his lips and chin to keep his mouth closed. It took less than a minute before the slave started to struggle for air, all his airways blocked by the Maia’s powerful grip.

When Mairon finally let go, several minutes later, the elf was leaning semi-conscious against his leg and despite the terrible beauty of this sight, Melkor started to grow impatient again.

“Education.” The Maia replied as if it was obvious. “Pain inflicted to a few of them, death to others, and tomorrow they will all know the prize of their insurrection .”

“Do they not already know the prize?” Since the first prisoners had arrived in Utumno, so long before Melkor’s capture, punishments had been the main law, and everyday the disobedient, the rebels were whipped and beaten; slowly they took their free-will away from them, making them think with always the dread of pain in the back of their mind - what remained of their mind.

“This is different, my lord.” Pulling on the slave’s tangled hair and shaking his leg, Mairon forced the elf to pull away from him, and the poor creature obediently crawled backwards, kneeling down only a few inches away from the lieutenant, his face against the cold floor. “There never was such a riot before. Some of the orcs refused to deal with the slaves alone.”

“Punish the orcs and teach them what real fear is.” Melkor suddenly stated, fists clenching on the armrests. It was intolarable; such weakness wasn’t acceptable from his own troups, and a bunch of pitiful eldar wouldn’t make him yield.

“That is an option, my lord.” The lieutenant replied, his head tilting a bit, and Melkor instantly understood that his Maia didn’t agree. And when Mairon looked right into his eyes, Melkor knew he was silently asking the autorization to speak further.

The Vala hesitated a bit; although he tried to convince his lieutenant to speak his mind, he hated being contradicted on such important matters. Angband was his domain, he was the master and he was the one who gave the orders. He was supposed to know how to deal with his slaves, his subjects; his lieutenant should,’t - couldn’t - do it for him.

But as he stared silently into his eyes, as he watched determination and strength in the Maia’s burning pupils, Melkor gave a quick nod. “Speak swiftly.”

Obviously relieved, Mairon started to pace in front of the throne, around the slave who was crying silently, and Melkor could see the efforts the Maia was doing to give him a clear and yet detailed explanation.

The slaves, under the leadership of a little group, were attacking the guards, sabotaging their work and provoking the captains. The usual punishments didn’t seem to have any impact on them, the more daring of them laughed at the threats, and the Maia had decided to try a new method: This display. Taking not the rebels, but the ones they had befriended, and preparing for them this awful celebration; the dance of the knives along the skin, the constellation of nails thursting into the flesh, the necklaces of teeth and fingernails ripped off.

The lieutenant already knew how the survivors would crawl back into their cells, weeping and bleeding and praying, and telling their leaders the horrors they had endured in front of their Master.

And this was only the beginning. If but one of the slaves continued this little game, these small provocations, the Maia would respond with an increasing cruelty, bringing one by one the innocent ones to crawl in pain and shame at the feet of the Vala.

There could be but one winner, and Mairon wouldn’t allow himself to lose; this, Melkor knew; and although his face remained stern as he listened to his lieutenant, an odious, terrible laugh was bubbling in his chest.

A cold determination, a deadly precision and a delectable, stern sadism in a fiery overpowering spirit. His lieutenant was a rare, precious gem, a delightful pride. A strong, wild spirit, that constrained itself with its own chains. For Melkor had never put any chain around the Maia’s neck; he had no need for it; Mairon’s loyalty was incommensurable, surprising Melkor himself, Melkor who constantly lived in fear of betrayal, terrified that his creatures, his treasures, his powers escaped him.

But Mairon had no will to escape, and how deligtfully Melkor tasted the energy emitted by his lieutenant; warm and soothing in all its cruelty, in its madness and decadence.

“Are you listening, my lord?”

Pulling his mediations aside, Melkor nodded and couldn’t prevent a smirk that would have seen like an awful wince to anyone, except for the one who had spent all this millenia in his shadow.

“…Or must I make the elf scream to catch your attention?”

Ah! The Maia was finally deciding to unleash his sadistic sarcasm, this bolder part of his being that he too often tried to keep secret in the presence of his master.

“A few screams wouldn’t be unpleasant.” The Vala muttered, his chin resting on his hand, nerves clenching as a jolt of sudden pain ran through his fingers. Destestable pain inflincted by a burning, ripping blessing, by the holy fire poured into the jewels. This time, Melkor did wince, but something that tasted like gratefulness touched his soul as the lieutenant ignored the obvious twitches of pain on his Master’s face.

Mairon turned to the slave, eyes burning with something more terrible than abjection; a silent threat, a deafening nightmare, an unbearable dread sparkling like the promise of the sin to come.

But Melkor raised a hand to stop him - he needed no word to be understood by his lieutenant - and the Maia’s fist clenched, a detail which instantly caught the Vala’s attention. “Your hunger for blood and cruelty has always impressed me, Mairon.”

“So has yours, my lord.”

Melkor chuckled, his low, slow and dark voice raising from the back of his throat and filling the room with another wave of poisonous air, making the atmosphere heavy and encaving, almost painful against the skin.

The Maia was right, and yet Melkor knew they both didn’t enjoy it the same way. Mairon’s cruelty was methodic, precise and came from a twisted fascination, from a dark attraction and a nefarious hunger. Mairon would taste the blood, lick the knives clean, admire the way the viscera throb, how warm they feel in his palm, and slowly the Maia would drown into his own cruelty, drunk with the passion of his crimes. Mairon could control the pain he inflincted, he could control the screams and the flow of blood, and his delight came from this harrowing assumption of power melding with the cries of his victims.

Melkor’s sadism was coming from something else, something not devoid of fascination, but he and Mairon weren’t alike in their delight. The Vala rejoiced in chaos, and while Mairon enjoyed the way he could control their prisoners’ Hröar, Melkor wanted to turn them into a choatic chasm of pain and agony. How beautifully their bodies twisted and writhed under the torments he inflincted; their bodies and their minds losing every kind of cohesion, of order; a mess of feelings and thoughts, confusion and despair. The original chaos he could taste in their torments, and how bittersweet it tasted. His kingdom, his servants; he could turn them into the one thing that completed him; eternal disorder. Filling the void within him with chaos, with their chaotic screams and with the absurdity of their pain.

“What do you plan to do with him?” Melkor asked after a while, his eyes fixed on the slave.

“Well, my Lord, this is where real punishment should begin.”

Melkor was about to add something, but between his feet, Carcharoth appeated, attracted by the smell of fear that came from the slave. Distracted, the Maia looked at the huge puppy he had given his master a few years before, and he slowly raised his gaze to meet his Master’s eyes. No words were spoken, but Melkor understood the question that floated in the Maia’s gaze, a permission, and Melkor granted it. The Maia was the one who had breeded the wolves after all, he was the one who had poured his will and his strength into the beasts, who had twisted them, one by one, following his master’s teachings and combining them with his own troubled wisdom.

With a wristle Mairon called the wolf who instantly joined his side; a few orders were given, a jolt of will through the beast’s mind and shortly after, Carcharoth approached the slave, baring his teeth, saliva dropping from his open, threatening mouth.

The slave was now curled up on himself, pressing his face aginst the ground as if he was trying to meld with it, to disappear from this awful place, from this nightmare. And as the wolf devored him alive, starting with his ankle, the Maia let out a honeyed purr.

Melkor watched, but already his mind was running through the walls of his own fortress, exploring the dungeons and looking for one particular being. The Maia probably felt the change in his master’s being, for he turned away from the bloody feast and took a few respectful steps towards Melkor.

“Where is he?” Melkor muttered, his eyes open though his mind was still travelling through his land.

“I had to isolate him.” The Maia replied, and as Melkor allowed his mind to come back, he noticed the slight nervosity the Maia was digging deep inside of him. “But before nightfall, he will witness the effects his actions have upon the others.”

“You seem convinced your technique will not fail.”

“It cannot fail, my Lord.”

Melkor pondered the words, and during a few minutes the silence of the room was only disturbed by the sounds of the flesh eaten by the wolf. A beautiful melody, though Melkor was now distracted by the smell of death he knew too well.

“… How can you be so sure?” Melkor asked again, and he soon noticed the Maia’s irritation. Mairon didn’t like being questioned, and so often Melkor could see him struggle with his instincts, his urge to protest, to turn into this powerful, devastating flame of rage. “It is not the first time he is guilty for such crimes. The death of his own kin covers his hands… What makes you think he will be moved with regrets by the death of a few cellmates ?”

“The circumstances are different, my lord.” The Maia replied quite confidently, though Melkor could already see the trouble he had brought to his mind. “Kinslayer he is, but he is not insensitive. He knows pity, he knows guilt. Of this I am certain.”

"Very well.” Melkor’s tongue rolled behind his teeth, and he smirked as Carcharoth came back to him, leaving behind him half of a body. The Elf though, wasn’t dead yet, his Fëa still clinging to this miserable form that doesn’t look like a body anymore, and Melkor was already sending his own will, his counter-summoning to keep the elf in thrall, to chain his Fëa to his powers and prevent it from responding to Namo’s summoning. Keeping his eyes on the dying creature, he spoke slowly and he could feel his lieutenant’s eyes upon him, the thrill along the Maia’s spine, and the breath of the worlf against his hand. 

“I give you a week, Mairon. Make your little experiments, your punishments and displays, or whatever you call it. If in a week the Fëanorion still causes troubles among my servants, I will take care of him myself. And you, my beautiful Maia, I will teach you how a real punishment must be given.”

Melkor felt the Maia tensed, though it wasn’t the threat that had made him nervous; The Vala knew how Mairon cringed each time he called him his, each time Melkor gave him these frivolous pet names he could barely endure. And yet he did endure them, his loyalty fighting against his pride and crushing it to the ground.

“Did I made myself clear, Mairon?” Melkor asked, still focusing on his dark spells, making his power roll around the elf’s spirit.

The Maia gave a quick nod, and as the elf died, as Melkor launched his power to him, capturing his fëa and fitghing against the summon from the west, Mairon walked backwards, a dreadful and yet envious glim in his eyes. 

Something seemed to crack in the atmosphere, making it heavier, thicker and colder, a reflection of Melkor’s silent victory against the guardian of the Halls.


End file.
